


La Douleur Exquise

by brerediddy



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Teenagers, basically they're both in love but they don't think the other one will like them back, hurt ryan, protective brendon, small mention of alcoholism, small mention of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brerediddy/pseuds/brerediddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>La Douleur Exquise: the heartbreaking pain of loving someone you can’t have. </p>
<p>But what if Ryan really could have Brendon, or vice versa? The singer hasn’t seen his best friend in weeks and he just wants to know what’s going on. He also wants to know why Ryan has been acting so weird around him lately. Teenage AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Douleur Exquise

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest thing i've ever written but i'm really proud of it

It's not like Brendon is mad because, no, he totally isn't. It's just that this is the third time in a month that Ryan has cancelled band practice and the band just so happens to be the only thing that gets Brendon out of his shitty apartment, away from his shitty job, and distracts him from his shitty life. What makes it worse is that Ryan doesn't even have the fucking decency to give them an excuse, he just sends a text out an hour before the scheduled time that's, like, five words tops. Fuck it, 'sorry no band today' is four words. He could at least give them a reason, not just leave them hanging like a bunch of fucking incoherent pieces - Brendon's never really thought about it before, but Ryan is kind of the glue of the group, the backbone. And he can't even show up to a goddamned practice.

Okay, so maybe Brendon is a little mad. But he's totally allowed to be! Ryan is supposed to be the driving force - creative or otherwise - behind this business and he can't even be bothered to show up. When he voices this concern to Spencer one day, all he receives is a shrug.

"Maybe he's got an appointment," he says. He tries to act nonchalant but Brendon knows Spencer by now, of course, and he knows when something is up.

"You know why he's not showing," Brendon states like it's painfully obvious even though Brent is sitting on the couch looking confused as ever. That seems to be his default look nowadays anyway.

And something sparks in the drummer's blue eyes, something that Brendon knows means he's definitely right. The spark is gone almost as soon as it appeared and Spencer says, "I don't know anything; chill, Brendon."

He doesn't even know why it bothers him so much, but Ryan can't just disappear for weeks on end without telling him what's going on. It's fucking rude - not to mention, they're supposed to be best friends.

So Brendon does the only logical thing left to do. He drives to Ryan's neighborhood. It's not like he has anywhere else to be at the moment - such as, say, practice. He's been to the quaint house tons of times before. He likes giving the older boy rides home since they always end up singing the most ridiculous duets on the drive there. It's not like Brendon would ever bring it up, but he knows that Ryan is more vocal and fun when they're together. The shy and withdrawn boy is nowhere in sight whenever they're alone.

And, okay, maybe Brendon is a little bit worried alongside the ever-growing annoyance that's building in his chest. Ryan could have the flu, or something. He knows all about the flu, having grown up with so many siblings. He could help. His mind wanders to other various predicaments that could be causing Ryan to flake out on practice recently. Alien abduction. Stress about college. Maybe he's adopted a dog and can't be bothered to leave. Yeah, that's probably it.

The doorbell rings once, twice, three times before someone's lanky silhouette is in the window. The door is unlocking and opening and, wow, Brendon didn't really anticipate this one. Ryan is standing in the doorframe, looking too tall and too awkward and too nervous. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a blue top with his private school logo etched into the soft t-shirt material. His hair is longer than it was when Brendon last saw him, and that surprises him before he remembers that it was nearly half a month ago. He looks pale - too pale - so maybe his flu theory was right. But who gets the flu in the middle of summer? The guitarist is leaning against the frame now, an arm wrapped over his stomach in a fashion that looks incredibly uncomfortable. He's trying to look casual, but they're best friends and Brendon will be damned if he's fooled by the shy smile on Ryan's face.

"What's up with you?" Brendon asks after he finally gets over his shock. Ryan doesn't look well, like, at all. Maybe he was right to be worried. The frustration he previously held against him was sinking away bit by bit, being overtaken by confusion.

"Um," Ryan says, his voice soft and his brows furrowing together. He chews on his lower lip for a fraction of a second before adding, "What do you mean?"

"I haven't seen you in two weeks, Ryan. Since when do you bail on the band?" His tone is more accusatory than it maybe should be in the current situation, but Ryan owes him some answers for once.

"One and a half," he counters slowly, drawing it out. Maybe so he can bide his time and think of a reason for slamming the door in the lead singer's face.

Brendon narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. "That's not the point," he speaks. "You can't just vanish and not tell anyone."

"I told Spencer," Ryan defends, and Brendon has a small moment of victory because he totally fucking called it. "Why are you here?"

"For all I knew, you could be dead or something. I was checking up on you. Like friends do," he states pointedly. "And you know what? I don't miss practice. Ever. But if I did, I'd at least give you a good reason."

"Is that what this is about? You're mad because I missed practice?" Ryan's voice is hitting a small crescendo and shuffling is heard from the living room. Or, what Brendon figures is the living room from the small peek he gets. He's never been inside the Ross household. No one has except Spencer and maybe a few girlfriends here and there. Ryan always has an excuse as to why they have to have movie marathons in Brendon's tiny apartment, sharing the mattress on the floor.

"Keep it down," garbles a deep voice and Ryan instantly nods and steps onto the front porch. He closes the door behind him and leans back against the siding of the house, all while keeping his arm around his midsection.

"Is that your dad?" Brendon asks, distracted from the task at hand for a moment. He's never met Ryan's dad. Never even seen him.

"Don't change the subject," Ryan says, but he won't meet Brendon's eyes and there's less fire on his tongue than was building before.

"Okay, fine. Why haven't you been at practice?"

"Aren't I allowed to miss every once in a while? I have a life, you know." Ryan doesn't actually have much of a life outside of the band, and Brendon knows it. He throws him a look that says, 'oh, really?' and then shakes his head.

"I just want to know why you cancelled. You're - I don't know, you're being so weird. You're not acting like yourself," he accuses in a softer voice. Something is clearly wrong here, and he doesn't want to piss Ryan off to the point of not getting any answers. Despite popular belief, Brendon Urie actually does know when to shut his mouth. He can pick his battles even if it isn't something he does often.

"I'm not being weird. Honestly, Brendon, it's nothing. You don't have to come swooping in here to solve some big mystery. It's all fine. I'll be there next Tuesday," Ryan says, and it puts an effective end to the conversation.

Brendon doesn't move, though, instead he declares, "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's up. I mean, for god's sake, have you looked in a mirror?"

"Thanks, B," he says with a roll of his hazel eyes.

"No, seriously. You don't look like you're taking care of yourself; like, remember that time you didn't sleep for five days and you were walking around with your eyes the size of the fucking moon? You have that same dazed look and you can't just expect me to walk away."

After the other boy's tiny monologue ends, Ryan is silent. He doesn't have anything to defend himself with because he knows that Brendon is right, and he studies the sincerity in his brown eyes for a long moment. He knows how stubborn the singer is (it's something that drew Ryan to him in the first place) and he knows he can't just go back inside and ignore him, either. Alternatively, he heaves an inconsequential sigh and cracks open the front door to call inside the house.  

"Dad, I'm going to Brendon's."

-

Ryan is silent for the entire trip to Brendon's apartment building, his arms around his middle and his eyes following the clouds in the setting sky.

"I hope you weren't expecting food," Brendon states as he unlocks his door. "All I've got are expired Hot Pockets."

Ryan shrugs, says, "Doesn't matter to me," and crosses over into the familiar one-room space. It's small and by no means the most immaculate place, but it feels more like home than Ryan's house ever has. Not that he'll admit it to Brendon, god no. Keep the deception easy. Best friends and bandmates. Nothing more.

He lowers himself to sit in the only piece of furniture Brendon owns, a small lounge chair with matted-down padding. Brendon doesn't miss the quiet but sharp intake of breath or the way his long fingers immediately put pressure on his side, but he stays quiet for now. Lets Ryan take his time with talking about whatever this is. He sits on the mattress, criss-cross style, and peers up at his best friend.

"I've been avoiding you guys," Ryan admits with his head bowed. His voice is tentative and delicate. "I didn't want to come to practice because I didn't think I could hold my guitar or stand up for so long without it hurting too much.”

"Ry, what's going on?" Brendon asks, and the uneasy feeling is back in his stomach. He’s talking about physical pain. That's got to come from somewhere, right? It's caused by something. And what if Ryan is sick? Like really sick? What if something's happening to him that can't be fixed and he has to live without-

"Bren." A gentle voice breaks through the onslaught of anxieties that rush into Brendon's head. "Stop getting ahead of yourself." Then he gives this small laugh, more of an exhale, really. It doesn't match up to the beautiful laugh that the singer has heard before. Something is missing in it; broken.

"Your side, you keep holding onto it and now you're saying you can't stand or play your guitar. I - I'm allowed to get ahead of myself," Brendon stammers, hating how he sounds so much younger but unable to focus on it for long because he's so fucking worried about the boy sitting in front of him.

"Drastic change from when you invaded my front porch," Ryan comments. "I thought you'd come to kill me. Full Tarantino style."

"That was different. Fuck the missed practices, I don't care," he rambles.

The older of the two ignores the flutter in his chest. He knew that Brendon would care, but this much? This is a nice surprise. "I'm going to show you something but you have to promise me you won't freak out."

Brendon nods and waits a little less than patiently as Ryan fumbles to take off his shirt.

"Ry, what the _fuck?"_ He stares in shock at the patch of blue and black skin that's flowering all across the left side of his stomach.

"It's just a bruise. Spence took me to the hospital and we got everything checked out. It's all fine," he assures.

Brendon feels like he can't breathe and he swallows before asking, "How?"

"My dad - " Ryan begins but is cut off immediately by the other boy's widening eyes.

"Your dad did that to you?" His hands are shaping into fists just out of pure instinct, and he'll kill him. That asshole, he's fucking dead. He's Dead with a capital fucking D because Brendon doesn't take well to people hurting those he cares about. Those he loves.

"Brendon, calm down, it's fine," Ryan amiably states.

"It's not fine! What the fuck? How can you be so calm about this?" Brendon is running a hand through his hair and taking deeper breaths. "Wait, fuck, has he done this before? Has he?"

Ryan says, "One thing at a time," and reaches for his shirt again. Maybe hiding the damage will help the anger level in the room. Although he knows it's not directed at him, he still wants to fix the situation. "I'll tell you about it if you calm down."

Brendon nods hesitantly and then he stands up to help pull the shirt over Ryan's head, looking down at him like he's some wounded animal. And he's not. _He's not._

"Just. Just tell me what happened." Brendon's eyes are still wide, but his fists have unfurled. He moves back to where he was before, looking up at the other boy.

"It was my fault, too," Ryan starts, and in return he receives a challenging glare so he just continues, "He came home before I had a chance to get my guitar upstairs, and he kept complaining about how music is impractical and useless, and I. I shouldn't have, I know that. I know better than to go near him. But my guitar was on the other side of the room, so I kind of. I pushed past him." He pauses to rub his face tiredly. He hasn't had a decent night's sleep in such a long time. "And he shoved me into the counter."

"He had to have pushed you so hard, if it still hurts this long after...how could he do that to you?" Brendon's brows are forming a thin line and he looks torn between tearing up and getting angry again. "Has he...?"

"No. Not anything like that. He just drinks a lot, is all. We stay out of each other's way."

And now it starts connecting in his head, puzzle pieces and memories all coming together. How Ryan is always looking for excuses to get out of his house, the days he "just happens" to crash at Spencer's, all of the unanswered questions about his family, the fact that Brendon's never even met Mr. Ross.

"Ry..." he begins and for once in his life, he's at a loss for words. "Ry, I'm so sorry."

He shrugs like it's no big deal and says, "Could be worse." There's a small sense of deprecation in his tone and it breaks Brendon's heart just a bit more. If that's even possible.

"If you ever need a place to stay," he offers, and Ryan gives him another small smile and thanks him. "Do you want to stay tonight?"

"Do you mind?" Ryan asks, wringing his hands in his lap.

"No, no. Of course not. Not at all."

There's an awkward silence filled with just Brendon looking at the boy with newfound adoration and concern and Ryan looking at Brendon with the same amount of adoration. It would be a Moment, if not for the situation.

The older boy asks, "Were you really that worried about me?"

"Of course I was worried about you," Brendon says within an instant. He shakes his head sorely and adds, "Still am. I'm so...I could kill him. I could kill him for what he did to you."

Ryan can't help but smile a little at the feeling in his chest. He doesn't want Brendon worrying about him, but knowing that he gives a shit is nice. "Come hug me," he suggests a moment later. And so Brendon props up to balance on his knees and scoots forward to throw his arms around the boy's shoulders. He's careful of the left side, afraid that he may break the thin boy if he squeezes too hard.

"Fucking missed you," he whispers, hushed and sweet in Ryan's ear.

"Missed you, too," Ryan agrees softly, closing his eyes and leaning into Brendon a bit more.

"Gonna take care of you, you know."

"You don't have to, it's okay," he objects as they're pulling apart, butterflies in his stomach. Brendon rests his palms on Ryan's knees.

"I know I don't have to," he affirms. "I want to."

And Ryan smiles, ducks his head to hide the small blush on his features. "You're a good friend," he says. Friend. What a world they live in when that simple syllable makes both of their hearts clench for a nanosecond.

"C'mon," Brendon intones gently after a moment of silence. "Let's do something to take your mind off of it."

"What do you want to do?"

"Well now, Ryan Ross, that is completely up to you," Brendon says, and he's giving him this one-hundred-watt smile and it makes Ryan's world brighter even if just for a moment.

"Let's go rent a movie, or something. We can get a pizza. My treat," he offers. Ryan feels the tension leaving the room and he's thankful that it's all out in the open now.

The singer nods and there’s a ghost of the grin still on his face. Ryan loves it when he smiles, and knowing that he helped contribute to it makes him feel a warm glow in the middle of his chest. Formerly, there had only been anxiety and now every moment spent with the other boy is making that disappear.

“I’ll drive us to the rental place, it’ll be great,” Brendon says. First, he gets up off the mattress and then Ryan follows closely behind.

-

“Okay, so listen,” Brendon says. He’s holding half of a slice of cheese pizza in his left hand and working his remote control with his right. “I’m going to cuddle the shit out of you during this whole thing. I mean - well, like, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ryan shakes his head with a small huff of laughter before moving the cardboard box back onto the floor so that he can stretch out on the mattress. He’d taken some ibuprofen earlier and it was starting to kick in, so he could more easily lay on his side. “You won’t hurt me, Bren. Don’t worry about it.”

He sighs and then brushes off the anxieties that come seeping in when he thinks about Ryan’s situation. “You’ve seen this movie before?” Brendon asks instead of the million questions he wants to; _come live with me? Don’t go home? Let me help you get away from him?_

“I’ve seen, like, half of it,” the guitarist explains. “It’s a classic, though, The Breakfast Club. So it has to be good.”

There’s a small moment of silence before Brendon finally gets the disc in his DVD player to do its job and play.

“Tell me if anything bothers you, okay?”

“I’ll be fine, B. Stop worrying.”

The lights of the one-room apartment are turned off and only the light of the TV screen engulfs the two as Brendon moves his blanket-clad arm around Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan sits up a little bit so that he can lean into the other boy’s chest.

“Can you see?” Brendon asks him and Ryan gives a small hum of approval. They’re friends, and that’s all. But he can cherish the moments like these when they come.

On screen there comes a scene of a high-school hallway and some very eighties-esque background pieces. Brendon cards his fingers through brown locks of hair to which Ryan nestles more into him. They’re both starved for affection and soaking in every bit that the other is willing to give.

“You know,” the singer whispers so as to not disturb the movie, “You could stay, if you want. We could do this every night.” And Ryan would be lying if he said his stomach didn’t turn into a pile of butterflies at the simple words.

“I can’t just leave him to fend for himself, I mean, he’d die.”

Brendon wants to tell him: _so what? Let the bastard die._ But he doesn’t do that, so instead he just nods and holds Ryan the slightest bit tighter. He tells himself that it’s just to make the other boy feel safe and comfortable. Not at all to reassure himself that Ryan is still here, still breathing, still intact.

The movie passes by and takes up a nice chunk of the night. By the time it’s ended, Ryan is smiling sleepily at the rolling credits and Brendon is yawning every few moments. He lazily reaches for the remote, thinks that he could stay in this little embrace forever if it were possible. He switches off the TV and gives a small sigh.

“C’mon, let’s get under the covers. You’ll freeze your skinny ass off otherwise, Ross,” Brendon says sluggishly. He pulls back the duvet while Ryan is pulling off his jeans. Modesty has no place here. He catches a glimpse of what looks like the bruise although it’s dark and the sight makes nauseous anger swell in the pit of his stomach once more. _How dare he? How fucking dare he lay hands on Ryan?_

“Bren,” encourages the older boy from his place on the pillow. “Come on.”

And so Brendon lets the rage and protectiveness subside as he pulls off his jeans and climbs into bed. Ryan immediately reaches out for him, and he blushes a little at how adorable that is.

Ryan drapes an arm over the other boy’s waist and pulls him in. If Brendon had to describe Ryan in a word, he would use “gentle.” He’s gentle in every sense - soft-spoken, soft-hearted - and he traces his fingers along Brendon’s skin as if there were landmines waiting to erupt beneath the surface. The guitarist blinks heavily and asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” Brendon answers honestly.

“What about me?”

He responds, “Good things,” and Ryan smiles at him. And, god, his smile. He’ll never get tired of seeing it. The older boy doesn’t really smile all that much - not that he isn’t happy, it’s just that he’s not one to express much outwardly. When he does, Brendon can’t think about anything other than how well happiness suits him, how it lights up his face and makes it impossible to see anyone else in the room.

“Well, I’m thinking good things about you, too.” Ryan closes his eyes and it’s basically a free pass for Brendon to stare at him all he wants. His pursed lips, his relaxed jawline. A contentedness on his features that doesn’t appear often.

“How long do you want to stay here? Even if you can’t stay forever?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“How long until you get tired of me?” Ryan counters. He moves his head so that it’s almost touching Brendon’s. They’re sharing one pillow, after all, so it doesn’t mean anything. Right?

“Never,” he answers far too quickly. “I’m in this for the long haul, Ryan Ross.” He moves a hand to brush a strand of hair away from the other boy’s eyes.

“I’ll think about it more in the morning,” Ryan decides, but his stomach is doing small flips. He opens his eyes once more to focus on the singer.

“You doing okay?” Brendon asks him.

“I’m okay.” Ryan nods sleepily. His eyes study Brendon’s face for another second before they finally succumb to the heaviness of sleep, and honestly, Brendon kind of already misses the hazel that was just in front of him.

“Goodnight,” he says softly. Gently. “Sleep well, Ry.”

“G’night,” Ryan responds in a small voice. “Love you.”

Brendon doesn’t respond, but if he shifts in order to press a small kiss to Ryan’s forehead, can he really be blamed?

-

When Brendon wakes up, his head is pressed into Ryan’s chest and lanky arms are holding him close. He blinks a few times before deciding that he doesn’t want to move quite yet. The even breathing from the other boy suggests that he’s still asleep, and Brendon wouldn’t want to wake him up. The past couple of weeks have been rough for him, after all. So the younger of the two just closes his eyes and lets himself be held, peaceful and still for once.

It doesn’t seem like much later - or maybe it is, Brendon’s really not sure if he dozed off again or not - when Ryan begins shifting under him and yawning. He pulls one arm away from Brendon to rub at his eyes but otherwise stays where he is; it’s a pleasant surprise. Usually Ryan is weird about too much physical contact unless he’s sleepy or one of them needs the other person. But hey, Brendon figures, maybe Ryan kind of needs him right now. And he’s okay with that.

“Morning, Ross,” Brendon murmurs, a small smile seeping from his features into the inflection of his tone. He meant what he said last night - he wouldn’t mind doing this every day.

He replies, “Morning,” and sounds almost as embarrassingly-smiley as Brendon feels.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Wonderfully,” Ryan says. He tilts his chin down so that he can properly look at the other boy. “How about you?”

And his eyes are staring right at him, the hazel somehow managing to make him feel more vulnerable than he has in a long time. Vulnerable and something else, like the adoration in Ryan’s eyes is working a fluttery feeling into his chest. Brendon doesn’t exactly mind the feeling, which is weird. That’s weird, right? Like, okay - hypothetically, if he _did_ have a crush on Ryan Ross, which he totally doesn’t - it would still be a weird feeling. Right?

“Great, yeah,” Brendon responds finally. Okay, so maybe he got a little lost in thought. It’s surprising how often that happens around Ryan.

And, well, Ryan’s stuck with thoughts of his own. For one, he’s concerned that Brendon may follow through on his Aries stereotype and actually kill his father. Although, when he thinks of it with their roles reversed? He most certainly would beat the shit out of Mr. Urie, or at least try. But it’s also different because Ryan loves Brendon. Like, legitimately loves him. In a relationship kind of way, in a hold-my-hand-and-take-me-to-dinner kind of way. And he knows that Brendon could never feel the same way about him, because why would he? How could he?

Ryan figures that Brendon is the literal sun and if he’s the sun, then that would make Ryan the little tiny solar panel on, like, a calculator or something dumb like that. Soaking in every bit the other is willing to give, but never admitting anything. Because, yeah, he may have aced English and he may be gifted when it comes to words but he could never - he’d fuck it up. So he’ll just lay here and enjoy it while he can, enjoy how beautiful Brendon looks when he’s just woken up and his hair is sleep-tousled and his eyes look like they could swallow the whole world.

“Do you want first shower?” Brendon asks and it pulls Ryan from his thoughts.

“Um.” He swallows because he’s not quite sure he wants to get up yet. “Yeah, thanks.”

Brendon sits up so that Ryan can get up, and the latter slowly rolls himself off of the mattress, already grimacing from the bruise. Time for more meds, he supposes. The singer watches him go into the too-small bathroom, already missing the warmth that he provided. He flops back down on the pillow once he hears the shower running.

Maybe he’s starting to see Ryan as more than a friend because he’s lonely. Maybe he just needs a girlfriend, right? Or, hey, maybe a boyfriend, who knows? And on the subject of boyfriends, would Ryan be willing? Okay, wait, shit. Brendon rubs at his eyes and shakes his head before exhaling. He’s being dumb. He’s not in love with his best friend. That would be dumb of him. Besides, why would Ryan want him? He’s probably more into self-proclaimed intellectuals who can talk about which member of The Beatles was the most insightful over a subtle coffee-house date. Or something. And all Brendon can offer is a night of rental movies and pizza.

More time must have passed than he thought, because he’s soon torn from his vaguely self-doubting thoughts by Ryan’s monotonous but somehow still bemused voice.

“So, um, do you have anything I could maybe put on?”

And. Well. Shit.

Brendon makes the mistake of turning in the direction of the voice, and there he is, towel around his waist. And he’s seen Ryan shirtless plenty of times before but this somehow feels different. Like he’s seeing him for the first time. And the bruise, yeah, the bruise takes him from the moment because he’s still so _pissed_ but he shakes his thoughts away from it because if George Ross II got to ruin Ryan’s week, he sure as hell wasn’t about to ruin this for Brendon. Ryan’s torso, his pale but still glowing skin. His slim waist and the way the towel is hanging off of it in just the right way to expose more of his hipbone. How his still-damp hair has taken it upon itself to curl and fall gracefully over his left eye. How he’s biting his bottom lip and there’s a hint of a blush in his cheeks, and. Fuck. He looks better than he’s ever looked.

He can’t really do much else but stare until Ryan’s brows furrow in a way that means he’s beginning to get suspicious on why Brendon hasn’t moved yet. He gets up off the bed and searches through his small dresser-worth of clothing to pull out a t-shirt and sweatpants. He crosses the room to hesitantly hand them to Ryan, clearing his throat in an awkward manner.

“The sweats may be a little small on you, but - I’m pretty sure you left that shirt last time you spent the night, so it should be, uh, it should be okay,” Brendon stammers. And yeah, alright. Maybe he’s got it bad for this boy but that doesn’t change anything.

Ryan nods his thanks and turns to go back into the bathroom, and once he’s out of sight Brendon can both breathe again and rightfully freak the hell out. Seriously - emotions, what the fuck?

By the time Ryan exits the bathroom again, Brendon hardly lets himself look and ducks into the small space. A shower will help clear his mind and make him feel less ridiculous. It’s just a crush.

Crushes pass.

-

As soon as Brendon shuts the door behind himself, Ryan lets the uneasy feeling in his stomach resurface. The other boy had certainly been checking him out, sure, but was it a genuine thing? He doesn’t think so. Besides, Brendon wouldn’t like him back, he knows that. Whatever small (miniscule, inconsequential, picayune...Ryan would think of a hundred synonyms for the word before he would let himself consider the way those brown eyes looked at him almost predatorily) attraction was between them was primarily physical. Nothing more.

“He doesn’t like you,” Ryan mouthed to himself and, sure, there was a small pang in his chest but, no, he wouldn’t just stand around and feel it. He needed to do something to repay the other boy. He’d taken him in last night and given him a reason to smile when such reasons had been scarce in the past couple of weeks. He’d given enough of a shit to listen as Ryan spoke about silly things.

So he walked over to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards and cabinets and fridge-space before he found what he needed. Flour, eggs, milk, and butter. Baking powder and sugar were harder to find as they, for some reason or another, were tucked in under the sink.

He mixed all of the dry ingredients together first and then added the rest, and he was honestly astounded at how much he’d really picked up from the one semester of Home Ec. he had been forced to take. Finding a suitable skillet was harder, but he eventually discovered one - crammed in the drawer beneath a few sponges and various soaps - but a skillet nonetheless. Ryan placed the frying pan on Brendon’s stove and waited for it to heat all the way before pouring the mixture in. He made a few pancakes and set them aside on a plate, then a few more on another plate. By the time he was done putting the ingredients away, Brendon had finished his shower and slipped into the kitchen area without Ryan noticing.

“What’s this?” he asked, a smile playing on his lips. God, his lips. Wait. No, Ryan. Stop thinking about him like that.

“I just.” _Wanted to repay you for last night. For being there._ Ryan plays with the knuckle of his index finger and begins again. “I just wanted to do something nice for you; what do you think?”

“I love it, Ry,” Brendon says and he smiles one of his sunshine grins and Ryan’s heart probably kind of explodes right there on the spot. “Let’s see if you’re as good at cooking as you are at most things.”

“Most things meaning what, exactly?” Ryan asks as he walks to take a seat in the lounge chair by the TV. “I’m good at, like, two things. Maybe three if I’m lucky.”

“Oh, shut up,” Brendon responds after he swallows a bite of pancake. “You’re good at everything. And also apparently cooking, so add that to the list.”

“Yeah?” he challenges in return and gathers together pieces of pancake. “Name four things. Five, if you’re brave.”

The singer raises his eyebrows, scoffing a bit. “You’re on, Ross,” he says and holds up one finger. “Guitar, songwriting, English, cooking, makeup.” After each word, he held up one more finger to count off. “Do I need to go on?”

“I don’t think cooking counts because, I have to remind you, these are only pancakes. I once almost burnt down the house with Easy Mac because I forgot the water,” Ryan says and Brendon’s eyes widen before the two of them get lost in the sound of each other’s laughter.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Brendon concedes. “Alright, to take the place of ‘cooking’ then I input...being attractive.”

A flutter in Ryan’s chest works its way into being a blush on his cheeks and he can’t do anything but shake his head. “One: ‘being attractive’ isn’t something you’re good at. It’s not technically a verb no matter how much emphasis you put on it. And two: I’m not attractive.”

“Sorry, what?” he asks, setting his half-eaten breakfast on the floor next to the mattress. “I couldn’t hear you on account of how wrong you were.”

“Let’s forget it, B,” Ryan says. He glances down at his food and pushes it around on his plate.

“No, seriously,” Brendon responds. “You don’t think you’re attractive? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

There was nothing the guitarist wanted to be doing less than having this conversation right now. He can’t get into discussions like this, he can’t, because it’s only going to make him like the other boy more and that’s not what needs to happen. He needs to get over his dumb lovesick heart and give up.

“Ryan,” he says, cutting into his thoughts. “Do you need me to tell you how great you are? Because I will. Like, I’ll write novels about it and cheesy poems and probably a few songs and-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Ryan doesn’t mean to end Brendon’s steady stream of commentary so abruptly but he can’t listen to any more bullshit. He doesn’t want to hear about how “great” the singer thinks he is because he’s not. If he were, then maybe Brendon would like him back. Maybe he’d have a chance. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t have a chance and thinking about that fucking kills him.  

“What?” Brendon asks, and his voice has sunken an octave in volume and in tone. He sounds vaguely hurt, which makes Ryan feel guilty as hell but he can’t deal with this.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I shouldn’t have,” Ryan apologizes. He gets up from his seat with the slightest wince and takes his plate to the sink. He won’t look at the confused boy on the bed. He needs to get out of this apartment and clear his thoughts because if he’s here much longer he may never leave and it wouldn’t be right for Brendon. He can’t have someone around taking up all of his time, not someone like Ryan who’s toxic and dramatic and moody. He needs to leave. “I think I’d better go. Thank you for letting me stay. I’ll get your clothes back to you at practice.”

And just like that, he leaves. Brendon is left with his brows furrowed and his mouth slightly open, just staring at the door.

-

Brendon is mad, yeah. He’s kind of pissed at Ryan for changing his mood on a dime and ruining the nice atmosphere they had going. He’s mad at him for just walking out with no explanation. But even more than being angry with Ryan, Brendon is mad at himself for letting him go.

He should have called after him, or followed him out, or - or something, okay? It was dumb of him to let Ryan leave. And he hates the worry that’s settled once more in the pit of his stomach after finally having gone away the previous night. _Did he make it home safe? Was he going home? If he was, is he even safe there?_

The singer is pacing the tiny apartment, running his hands through his hair because he really has no fucking idea of what he should do. Ryan obviously needs space or something, otherwise he wouldn’t have left. Right? And if he needs space, what does he need it from? It’s not like they were fighting or Brendon was being too annoying. He knows when he’s being annoying, he can tell, and he wasn’t doing anything that he could think of to make Ryan leave.

The other boy didn’t start to get uneasy until they brought up the attractiveness thing, and Brendon supposes that he’s at fault for that. But even still, they’ve had conversations like that before. Brendon tells Ryan that he’s pretty all the time and Ryan’s never had issue with it before today. Seriously, that boy is a fucking enigma.

Okay, so, plan time. Because Brendon can’t just sit around his home all day feeling anxious and pissed off or else he’ll go insane. He doesn’t even know where Ryan is, though, and that poses to be an issue because where would he even look for him? Start smaller, Urie, alright? What about calling him? Yes, good, that could work.

So he presses the number five on his keypad - Ryan’s speed dial - and it rings a few times before the line is picked up.

The guitarist takes a deep breath before saying, “Look, I can’t talk to you right now, okay?”

And Brendon’s heart breaks a little bit but he ignores that. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on, Brendon,” Ryan responds stoically and he always does this. He always retreats back into his shell when things go wrong. And he knows that all he’s doing is pushing Brendon away and the other boy sounds so hurt by this whole thing that it makes Ryan hate himself just a little bit more. He needs time to sort this out, to get over his affection for him. He thought he could be around him, be close with him, be his friend. He can’t. Ryan can’t handle just being his friend. He can’t handle causal conversations of compliments between best friends.

“Come back so we can talk,” he encourages in a small voice. “Please?”

“Bren…” He wants to. He wants nothing more than to do whatever Brendon wants as long as he’ll stop sounding so goddamn sad. “Can I call you back later? When I can - when I’m able to explain myself. I’m sorry for freaking you out, or whatever. But I’ll call you in a little bit. I promise.”

“No,” Brendon says. “No, Ryan, you’re going to either come back here and talk or stay on the line and talk. You’ve had almost two hours to figure your shit out, okay? And I deserve an explanation.”

“You do,” he agrees. But Ryan can’t give him one. “I get moody sometimes, you know that.”

“I do know that,” he states. Brendon sits in his chair and picks at a string in the hem of his shirt. He’s trying to stay composed but really, he’s confused and worried and pissed, so can he be blamed if his voice shakes the slightest bit? “But this was different. It’s like, there was literally no warning. You were just gone. And correct me if I’m wrong but I didn’t do anything.”

Ryan is seated on a park bench, trying to have his mental breakdown in fucking peace. “You didn’t do anything,” he affirms.

“This is like talking to a wall, oh my god,” Brendon mumbles. They’ve fought before, of course. They’re both too stubborn for their own good, but in a battle of stubbornness, the singer knows he can win every time. “Why did you leave? We were having a good time, right? Last night was good. This morning was good. So what changed?”

“I don’t think I can do it,” Ryan blurts out. “I can’t be around you.”

And, well. That completely disintegrates all of Brendon’s confidence, all of his willpower to outlast Ryan’s mood-swing. He blinks hard, ignores the actual physical pains in his chest. “W-What?”

If Ryan hated himself before, he fucking _loathes_ himself now. “I didn’t mean it like that, shit, okay. I just. I can’t be around you because it hurts. It - It hurts in my chest and my stomach and my head all the time when I’m around you because I can’t stop thinking about how you. How you can’t like me.”

“Ryan, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Brendon can’t tell if he feels like crying or not, so he gets more angry instead. “You’re my best friend. Why the fuck would I not like you?”

“No, I,” Ryan says. He’s pulled his legs up to his chest on the rickety wood and he wants the world to swallow him whole right here. “It hurts.”

“What hurts, Ryan? Being around me? I thought we were best friends. Where did that go?”

He’s fucking this up, he’s ruining not only his chances (not that he ever had any) but also one of the best friendships he’s ever had. He should have gone to Spencer and asked for advice, but what would he say? _Hey, I love our lead singer and he can never love me back, how do I stop myself from lying in traffic?_ “You want to know why I left?”

Brendon heaves an exasperated sigh and then exclaims, “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out this entire goddamn time, Ryan!”

“I thought I could do it,” Ryan explains. “I got through the night and I was happy and you were happy but then I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d fuck it up.”

“Fuck what up?” He’s almost afraid to ask, and his voice is softer now. Ryan is going to tell him, he’s finally going to explain everything.

“I love you,” Ryan chokes out involuntarily. He can’t fit any more words past the lump in his throat and so he stays silent even when Brendon inhales sharply.

This doesn’t explain anything.

“What do you mean you love me?” Brendon can’t let himself hope, or - or think about how maybe his feelings are returned.

“I.” He tries but he just can’t get the words out and if Ryan were a smarter man he would hang up already. He would have hung up ages ago, before he said the one thing that could literally ruin his life. And now Brendon gets a front row seat to his entire downfall.

“I think you need to come back, okay?” he says and Ryan can’t believe that Brendon hasn’t hung up yet. Can’t believe he even said those three words, like he deserves to feel that way about the other boy. But the singer’s voice is softer now, and he’s realizing the gravity of the situation. He’s realizing that this could mean that - that he could have an opportunity to really be with Ryan. With the one person that’s been on his mind this whole time. “Please come back?”

Ryan still feels like he can’t speak, but he does manage to say, “Yes,” and Brendon lets out a small sigh of relief. This was just a big misunderstanding and now maybe they can work it out. Maybe they can be more. Is it foolish to hope?

Brendon nods to himself, runs his hand through his hair again but this time it’s so he can relax. “Okay, good. Thank you. See you soon?”

Ryan hums and hangs up the phone, and both of their hearts are starting riots in their chests.

-

Ryan hesitates before he gives a few soft raps on the door and then there he is, Brendon, and he’s pulling open the door and - and, well, now they’re hugging. Really? Is this real? Maybe he fell asleep on the park bench or something, and this is all a dream. Man, he’s going to really feel like shit when he wakes up.

The singer is shorter than him by more than a few inches and he’s encircled Ryan’s waist with his arms, pressing his nose into the side of his neck. This isn’t how friends hug. But even so, the taller of the two slowly wraps his arms to lay on top of his shoulders. He still feels like he can’t breathe, but this is helping. Brendon always helps. And here they are, the two lovesick boys standing in the open doorway of Brendon’s apartment, holding each other in a way that isn’t remotely platonic.

“Are you okay?” the shorter boy breathes into the side of his neck and fuck, that makes Ryan crazy. All he can really do is nod and when he does, Brendon just hugs him tighter. “Do you want to sit down?”

He nods again so Brendon releases him and looks him up and down, makes sure he really does look okay, and then takes his hand. The door is closed and then Ryan is led to the mattress, and they’re sitting cross-legged and facing one another. Equal ground.

“You can take your time, okay? I just want you to know that I’m not freaked out or anything. I just want to work this out,” Brendon explains, and he’s trying so hard to keep from tackling Ryan and telling him that his feelings are returned. “I didn’t hurt you when I hugged you, right?”

“No,” Ryan finally says, and he means it. The bruise is getting better anyway, and if he felt any slight twinge of discomfort then the hug made up for it. “I just. Where - Where do I start?” He looks down at his hands, twisting in his lap, and he’s never felt so sick in his life.

“What you said on the phone,” he responds, “did you mean that? And is that why you left?”

He’s silent for a long moment before he stammers, “O-Of course I meant it. And, um, I don’t know. I just. I couldn’t be around you much longer without losing it, I guess. I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb, don’t say that.” Brendon’s heart is kind of soaring right now, like maybe this can work out after all.

“It’s dumb,” Ryan repeats. He still can’t look him in the eye, but he can explain himself. Or, at least, he thinks he can. “Look, Brendon, I know you can’t feel the same way. I-I get it. Why would you?” He looks sad, so fucking sad that it causes pains in the other boy’s chest, and his brows furrow in confusion. But he lets Ryan go on. “I can get over it. I just need some time. I’ll get over it.” In the back of his mind, Ryan knows he won’t. Can’t. How could he ever get over someone like Brendon Urie? But he could try. God, he’d try anything if it would make Brendon happy.

“Ryan,” the singer states like it’s the only word he knows. “Why...Why do you think I wouldn’t feel the same way?”

The aforementioned boy lets out a bit of a laugh, and he’s numb, oh god, and this conversation is getting to be too much to handle. “Don’t fuck with me, okay? Don’t. Please.”

“I’m not fucking with you. Why are you so hell-bent on me not liking you back?”

“That’s exactly it. I don’t like you, Brendon. It’s more than that. It’s more intense than just some silly crush. I would...god, I would do anything for you.” Ryan takes in a slightly shaky breath, but since this seems to be a goddamn all-inclusive sharing session, he decides to go on. Maybe Brendon will understand then. He continues, “I kind of think you’re amazing. Wonderful. Extraordinary. And - And it’s so hard because...fuck, okay...I look at you and I see the sun but you look at me and I’m just. I’m just Ryan. I-I’m not amazing or wonderful or, or extraordinary, and I sure as hell don’t deserve to love you. It makes me sick because I don’t deserve to even think of you as more than a friend. It’s wrong of me to even dream that you could..that you could ever even begin to love me back.”

Brendon doesn’t think he’s ever been more overwhelmed in his life. He’s angry - at himself for not telling Ryan that his feelings are reciprocated. He’s doleful that the other boy would think so lowly of himself; ecstatic that he likes him back, and even at a loss for words.

“You…” Brendon begins cautiously. He doesn’t want to scare Ryan off again. “You see the sun?”

“Of course I do,” Ryan says, and he finally makes himself meet Brendon’s eyes just for a second before they dart back to his hands. “You’re just so incredibly electric.”

Brendon wants to kiss him. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone more in his entire life, and he’s never been so in love with someone. He’s still confused as to how Ryan thinks so badly of himself, but they’re dealing with one problem at a time here.

Brendon wants to kiss him, and life is short.

“Ryan?” he asks, and he reaches out a hand to rest on the side of his face, and, yeah, it would probably be really fucking weird and awkward if not for the current situation. Hazel eyes meet his for more than a second this time. “Can I…?” And Ryan is puzzled but he’s never wanted anything else, so he nods.

Brendon inches forward, closes the gap between them, and meets Ryan’s lips with his own. The kiss is hesitant and shy and delicate, just a ghost of what could be. Both boys close their eyes at the same time, and both boys have never felt more alive.

It’s like a dam breaks and then Brendon’s other hand, the one not nestled against Ryan’s cheek, is settling on his hip. He’s careful to calculate that it isn’t the bruised side while Ryan is moving his hands - one to rest against the back of Brendon’s neck, pulling him in, and one on his bicep to hold him.

Kissing, to Brendon, has always been a completely weird sensation. Nice, but weird. Sure, making out with a hot girl (or boy, although he supposes this would be his first time even kissing a boy) could be interesting. But something was always missing. It’s not like he’s even had a serious girlfriend before, no one to really love so much as admire greatly. So this is a totally new experience to him.

Kissing Ryan is like...it’s like feeling the weight of the world roll off of his shoulders in waves. He thinks it’s like diving into the twelve-foot pool; no, it’s the moment that his head breaks the surface of the water and he comes up from the depths of it. It’s that first breath of air. It’s clichè to say that he sees fireworks, but he honestly really does. It’s hope and fireworks and magic and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever experienced. He’s also slightly annoyed on all of the time they spent not kissing, because this is fucking awesome. The world is sliding into place right behind his eyelids and he’s never felt more elated.

To Ryan, kissing Brendon feels - more or less - like coming home. And not that artificial home he usually goes back to at the end of the day, not that lonely house. But it’s also a different kind of home than he finds at Spencer’s, when Mrs. Smith makes him his favorite dinners sometimes or when Spencer’s dog curls up on his lap during a long video game session. This home is different. It’s feeling safe and accepted and loved, but more intensely than anywhere else.

He’s been single for a while, and he’s pretty sure that he loved his last girlfriend, too. But this love is more of a burning desire, white hot in his brain-stem and his chest and behind his eyelids. He feels such a strong sense of _home_ that it overwhelms him, makes him cling harder to Brendon. The singer feels so good, smells so good, _is_ so good, and Ryan loves him. And he’s still so confused as to how the boy he’s kissing, this beautiful boy, could ever even remotely like him back. But he ignores that self-loathing for a moment because he knows it’ll return later and he just wants to treasure this moment now. He wants to memorize every feeling he feels, every movement the two of them make - apart and together - and he wants to fold it up and keep it safe in his brain. He’s got a few ideas for tattoos in the future, and if he could, Ryan would capture the essence of this instant and ink it onto his skin forever.

All of a sudden, they’re pulling apart and Brendon looks like he’s on the verge of tears, but he’s also looking at Ryan with affection and fondness and - and love, and it makes the guitarist feel dizzy. Their hands refuse to move from their currently mapped points.

“I can’t believe I never told you before,” Brendon breathes. “I love you. _I love you_.”

Ryan’s heart clenches and that little voice in the back of his head shouts at him, he doesn’t love you and he never will, but he manages to tell it to fuck off before swallowing to ask, “Why?” He lets himself stare at Brendon now, gaze at every gorgeous feature and how his lips are slightly swollen and how they’re parting to speak and even how they look when they form those three words.

“I love you,” he repeats. “It’s always been you, Ryan. It’s been you this entire time. God, how could it ever be anyone else?” Brendon explains. “The way your brain works: it’s, it’s unreal how fucking intelligent you are. How beautiful your mind is. You’re one of the most stunning people I’ve ever known, and you’re absolutely radiant, you know? You’re so beautiful. A-And you’re funny and you make me feel safe and happy and I’m never more relaxed than when I’m with you even though sometimes my heart goes a hundred miles an hour. And I love you.”

Ryan kind of wants to break down and cry right then and there because he believes him, he truly believes that Brendon loves him, and he doesn’t know how to feel. He feels like he’s soaring, knowing that the incredible boy in front of him likes him back. That he doesn’t think he’s shit. But they’re both so young and maybe Brendon doesn’t really know and maybe this is going too fast and he also kind of can’t breathe.

“Ryan?” Brendon asks, but he can’t keep the grin off of his face. Instead of responding, the other boy just pulls his shaking hands away from their places on Brendon’s skin and he curls himself into his chest. The younger boy immediately shifts to make it more comfortable for him, his arms rapidly moving around his back and holding him close. Brendon lowers them both down so that he’s flat and facing the ceiling and Ryan’s head is tucked into his neck, body half on top of him.

“I love you,” Ryan murmurs into his skin which makes Brendon feel shaky and happy. “I-I’m sorry for all of the trouble before. I’m sorry. I’m so scared of fucking this up.”

“I’m scared, too,” Brendon admits. “But I think if we’re both scared, then we may have a better chance of not fucking it up, you know?”

Ryan nods in response because he’s right, of course he’s right.

“Do you think you could maybe tell me why you thought I wouldn’t like you back?” the singer asks him in a coaxing, but not forceful voice. Gentle. “You said you didn’t deserve me. That really worries me, Ry. I don’t want you to feel that way.” He grazes his hand up and down the other boy’s arm slowly in an attempt to show him that he’s safe here. He can talk about anything here.

His eyes are closed but he’s concentrating on Brendon’s words so intently that he’s almost synched their breathing together. “I just,” he begins nervously. “I just feel like you deserve better than me. And I believe that you love me, I do, but I just can’t help but feel like you’re making a mistake.”

Brendon shakes his head along with Ryan’s explanation, pausing for a moment to press a kiss to his hairline. “None of that, okay? There isn’t anyone better than you for me to deserve, and if there were then it wouldn’t matter. I want you, Ryan. I want you. And you can think I’m making a mistake, but the way I feel when I’m with you just proves that I’m not.” Who knew he was such a romantic? To ease the heavy atmosphere, he adds, “I didn’t think you’d be into someone like me. You’re so...you. And I’m just me. But I want to be everything for you.”

“Don’t say that you’re ‘just’ anything. You’re everything. You’re already everything to me. You always have been.” Ryan sits up just enough so that he can look into Brendon’s eyes. “I’ll write a million songs for you. Poems, if you want. I’ll dedicate every single one to you, Bren.”

“Yeah?” he asks. He feels light. Lighter than he’s ever felt before, just happy and content and floating. Seeing the way Ryan is blinking at him, how those hazel eyes see him like he’s the entire universe - it makes his heart do flips. “I’ll bottle up all of the stars for you, you know. Everything you’ve ever dreamt about. It’s all yours as far as I’m concerned.”

“The only thing I can dream about lately,” he responds, settling back down into Brendon’s chest, “is you.”

The singer smiles, questions, “What do you want to do?”

“I just want to lay here,” Ryan intones. He blinks heavily before closing his eyes again. “I just want to relax with you. Is that okay?”

Brendon hums truthfully, “It’s perfect.”

And he's right: it is.

****  
  



End file.
